


Honey and Spice

by Isis



Category: Ivanhoe - Walter Scott
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-02-07
Updated: 2011-02-07
Packaged: 2017-10-15 11:57:30
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 954
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/160596
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Isis/pseuds/Isis
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Fever dreams.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Honey and Spice

**Author's Note:**

> Written for Porn Battle XI, prompt: touch

_The draught which [the servant] Reuben administered was of a sedative and narcotic quality…_

Wilfred of Ivanhoe leaned back on the couch and closed his eyes. He could still taste the medicine in his mouth, pungent with the flavours of the Levant. The domestic had left him without a word; he was alone in that richly draped, very un-English room. The air seemed heavy, as though it had been transported from another climate along with the furnishings, and far too quiet. No hounds barked, no footsteps rang on bare flagstones. It seemed to him that he was wrapped in some strange Oriental carpet, far from all that was familiar. He wished that the Jewess would return.

And then she was there, leaning over him, touching his forehead with a cool hand. His eyes flew open, and he saw her, hair unbound, caftan flowing around her in waves of deep red and gold, illuminated by the candle she held with her other hand. And she saw him. "Thy pardon, Sir Knight. I did not intend to wake thee."

"No," he said. "I know." His tongue felt thick in his mouth. He gazed at her, and she returned his gaze, direct and warm.

"Sleep," she said, and he obeyed.

Some time later it seemed to him that Rowena stood by his side. She held a candle; its flickering light threw odd shadows across the room, across the couch where he lay, across her pale face and noble features. The sight of her filled him with joy.

"Lady," he whispered.

"Thou knowest I am no Christian lady," she said, and with that he saw that her hair was not fair, that her skin was dark. Of course. He was in the Ashby dwelling of Rebecca of York and her father Isaac. Rowena was on the road to Rotherwood. It was the dark beauty Rebecca who stood beside his bed.

"Maiden," he amended. "My fair physician. Although I perceive I am no longer injured. Thou hast healed me. See, I sit up," he said, and did so, in perfect ease and comfort.

"You are not yet well," she said severely. She placed a hand on his chest, forcing him back down to the couch with what seemed no effort at all. "Rest a while longer."

He captured her wrist with his hand. "Only if thou wilt rest with me."

He pulled her down to him. He did not know what became of the candle. The perfume of her hair filled his nostrils, the soft weight of her body pressed against his own. He felt a brief pang of guilt, for she was no servant, but she was not resisting his caresses, not sliding away, so it must be all right. The Jews had different customs. She kissed him with warm lips that tasted of honey and spice.

A familiar ache spread through his body. He would remain virgin until his holy union with Rowena, but he knew the satisfaction at least of his own touch, the way desire built and broke over him. Rebecca's hands traveled down his sides, held him gently as she moved over him. There were too many layers of cloth between them, the linens he wore and the bedclothes and the fine crimson and gold that draped her body, and he wished they were gone and it seemed to him that they vanished, so it was only Rebecca, her scented skin against his, her lips murmuring endearments against his shoulder, his neck, his brow. Her hair trailed across his bare skin, drawing strange symbols that burned into his body but left no trace, no mark. Her hands moved on him. His skin burned.

"Thou art beautiful," he whispered into her ear.

She drew herself up from him, her lips twisting into a melancholy smile. "Take care thou dost not forswear thyself."

"There is no falsehood in thy beauty," he said, and it seemed to him that the fire that her hair seemed to hold sprung up into full halo, giving her a corona he was afraid to look on fully.

"All women are beautiful when they gaze upon the men they desire," she said, bending back to his body, stroking his chest with her fingertips, burning her touch into his skin. He strained toward those fingers, toward her hands, hot and cool at once. She touched him. He filled, burst, cried out.

"Hush, hush." Her soothing voice broke across him like rain. He felt exhausted, as if he'd ridden hard from dawn until dusk, fought a hundred battles. Her touch on his shoulder made him shudder. "Reuben will change these."

He blinked himself awake. The sodden linen of the bedclothes clung to his skin. The candle was set on a low table, and by its light he saw Rebecca calm and fully clad, bending over him, drawing a warm cover over the couch.

"Forgive me," he said, and she looked at him quizzically.

"Thou hast done nothing to injure me."

"Nevertheless," he said, urgently. The candle flickered, and shadows danced across the walls.

"I forgive thee," she said. Her silken eyelashes lowered to shade her eyes for a moment, and she did not smile. "Rest now, Sir Knight." Her hand moved as if to stroke his shoulder, but hesitated, and instead she reached for the candle. "Tomorrow we travel to York, so thou must rest now."

He watched her leave the room, the tapestry that concealed the door falling into place behind her. Had it been a dream, then? He licked his lips; honey and spice. Not entirely a dream, perhaps. He fell asleep again, smiling to himself, and when he woke again, the room was sunlit, and servants stirred in the corridors beyond.


End file.
